


carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters

by IneffableDoll



Series: Breakdown [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crying, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hugs, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quite a lot of it, Swearing, Trauma, Triggers, this one hurts so if you’re sad please don’t read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27194473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Crowley was on the floor, in the bookshop, and he was holding a book. His hands started trembling and he didn’t know why.(Triggers are not always obvious. They do not always burn.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Breakdown [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985194
Comments: 21
Kudos: 148





	carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same universe as [oh now, I’m breaking down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385341) but is not necessary to read this guy. This was also written to cope after having a bad panic attack (a couple of weeks ago, now), so I figured they should go together. I meant to make the follow-up Aziraphale, but Crowley is my comfort character, what can I say?  
> Mind the tags, take care of yourselves.  
> Title from “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen.  
> Trigger Warnings: Panic attacks, PTSD, triggers, light disassociation, and some self-deprecating language, based on my experiences.

Crowley slammed the horn on the Bentley as he passed some driver in a flurry of glorious, shining black metal, tossing in a gleeful middle finger for flavor. He considered sending some sort of curse toward the guy, because really, who drives fifteen miles an hour in central London? But, with a self-satisfied smirk, Crowley decided he was above that (and Aziraphale would probably scold him).

Little time had passed since the Earth didn’t turn into a burning puddle of goo, and the shock hadn’t totally worn off yet. Hell hadn’t contacted him. Heaven didn’t acknowledge Aziraphale’s existence. They were utterly alone, and it was everything Crowley dreamed. He had a Bentley with which to drive, and a bookshop to drive toward, and an angel who was alive enough to scold him when he acted petty. There was a lot to be grateful for. Fucking brilliant, that little Antichrist. Crowley needed to send him a…a card, or something. Gift card. Yes, a gift card.

Crowley skidded to a stop in his parking spot that wasn’t actually a parking spot and sauntered up to the storefront, pushing his sunglasses snugly up his face as he went (he wasn’t sure why he wore them when he was alone, he just did).

With a snap, both doors flung open. He ignored the closed sign, of course, because while Crowley would never be a respectable demon, he also wasn’t a respectable citizen. Besides, Aziraphale made such cute faces when startled.

He walked in, the doors shutting graciously and dramatically behind him. Aziraphale wasn’t immediately visible, but Crowley could hear the old gramophone playing from the back. Frank Sinatra. Huh, surprisingly modern – for the angel, anyway. After following the sound and propping himself up in the doorway to the back room, Crowley watched for a moment as Aziraphale bumbled about, a stack of books in his arms, humming along with Frank. Expression contented, he swayed to the music as he maneuvered the shelving. His curls seemed extra mussed and Crowley’s heart dinged.

Crowley smiled, soft fool that he was. “Hey, angel.”

Aziraphale jumped, the books in his arms tumbling to the ground as he snapped out of some literature-induced dreamworld. As expected, the expression of surprise and joy the angel turned on him was _everything._ “Ah! Crowley!” he exclaimed before frowning at the ground and crouching to gather his dropped things. “Oh, botheration! I hope none of the pages are bent!”

Crowley knew they wouldn’t be – the books feared failing Aziraphale as much as Crowley’s plants feared failing him, something the demon had no hand in but was nonetheless proud of. “Good afternoon to you, too,” he snarked as he bent to pick up a book that skittered to his boots.

Crowley was on the floor, in the bookshop, and he was holding a book. His hands started trembling and he didn’t know why.

“Ah, thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said as Crowley wordlessly handed it to him.

“No problem,” he choked out, feeling oddly off-balance. Must’ve stood up too fast, that made him dizzy sometimes.

They went to lunch, as planned. Some Greek place. Crowley didn’t care much for Greek food, but he watched as Aziraphale enjoyed his meal, enraptured as always. It was pleasant. It was – well, may as well say it – _nice,_ alright? No need to go on about it. He loved this new normal. It was like the old normal, but a little different, and that was okay. It was good.

Aziraphale caught him staring and grinned instead of looking away (yes, good different).

They walked through the park, a slight breeze with clouds on the horizon. Crowley found himself watching the pedestrians – a baby in a navy-blue stroller and polka-dot dress, a jogger in a neon orange tracksuit, ducks pecking at the feet of those who lingered along the water’s edge. For a moment, he looked at himself through their eyes – the “man” in all black, the “man” in all creams, just close enough to hold hands. Lovesick fools, not a care in the world. Crowley knew he wouldn’t be rebuffed anymore if he reached out, but he couldn’t quite get himself to do it. It was too new, even after all these weeks.

The day passed blissfully, window-shopping and strolling aimlessly, arguing with his angel over three identical tartan bowties as Crowley tried his damnedest to get the angel to buy even just a plain white one (he lost, obviously). After some number of hours, they got dinner, somewhere with Korean cuisine. Crowley’s mind drifted often, and Aziraphale’s words blurred a bit as Crowley forced himself to listen. _Shit, must be really tired or something._

After a meal Crowley remembered little of, they walked together to the bookshop for drinks. They’d been doing this, recently – nay, they’d been doing this since alcohol got invented, but they’d been walking there _together_ , recently. It was normal, now, and Crowley loved it. Aziraphale casually took his hand and Crowley’s entire body shuddered.

This was normal, now. Nothing off about it. Walking together, holding hands. They were fucking in love, and that was okay and _good._ Literally nothing at all was wrong about this situation in the slightest, and Aziraphale was smiling, and Crowley’s _hands were fucking trembling._ He struggled to breathe, so he just stopped entirely, swallowed, and followed his angel into the bookshop.

Crowley glanced at the place where Aziraphale dropped the books that morning before shaking his head and falling in a heap of limbs over the sofa cushions. Aziraphale went off to get their wine. Sweat dripped down Crowley’s back, but his feet were ice. What was with that? Late summer, he figured. Temperatures were in flux. It was bloody Britain. Probably just ‘cause it had been hot, and the island couldn’t stand to have nice weather for too long of a streak or the Londoners might get ideas, like leaving their umbrellas at home.

When Aziraphale returned, Crowley welcomed him with a helpless smile and they settled into a familiar banter, because that’s what they always did. Side by side on the threadbare sofa, they caught hands sometimes or brushed shoulders, and it was the kind of shy romance that Crowley had always pretended he hated in movies and shows and plays. It settled him. He was comfortable and he was safe (there was nothing he needed to be kept safe from anymore, remember?).

At some point, Crowley realized they weren’t talking and were just staring at each other all soppily. He couldn’t claim to mind it. Aziraphale squeezed his hand, the one he _held_ , and said, “Would you take your sunglasses off, dearest?”

Crowley indulged him, of course, he did. Aziraphale had been brave and admitted he loved Crowley’s eyes and wanted to see them more often, and Crowley didn’t need to hide from Aziraphale anymore, so he’d taken to removing them when they were alone. He’d just forgotten about them, but he took them off, and that was fine because he didn’t mind having them off around Aziraphale.

He was in the bookshop. He was not wearing his sunglasses.

Crowley’s stomach tightened. Could demons get nauseous?

He had done this before, in the past weeks – even in the past years, centuries, on some occasions. This was not new, taking his glasses off in the bookshop. He had done this before, and it was not new (and all of him was trembling, all over).

He fiddled with the frames a moment, not realizing he was staring at his reflection in the lenses. He set them aside.

“You know what, it’s getting late,” he said abruptly, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand before letting go and rising. “Should head back.”

“You’re welcome to take a kip on the sofa, love."

“Nah, I’m feeling my actual bed tonight. Been too long. Think the plants need a lecture, too, and I’ve been negle- too soft on them, lately.”

Aziraphale smiled up at him with caring eyes. “Whatever you need.”

Crowley, gazing back, was struck mute with the desperate, painful desire to be alone. To get away. It wasn’t about Aziraphale, he just needed to be _away,_ where no one else was, in the dark where he could be alone. Fuck, he needed to be alone. Holy fuck. He couldn’t be there.

He stammered out some form of farewell through the stiff clench of his stomach and flung himself into the Bentley, which largely drove itself to Mayfair.

As soon as the door to his flat slammed shut behind him with a metallic clank, Crowley forced himself to pause, every inch of his flesh _crawling_ and itchy with…with something. He could tell something was up with his body, with his head. But the day had been good. There was no reason to be upset, so that couldn’t be it. _I just need to lay down._

Crowley had no energy to yell at his plants, so he simply spritzed them lazily, each footstep a loud, clicking echo in the emptiness of his flat. It wasn’t dark enough in there, the fluorescents too bright. The water spray thingy shook in his hand, so he put it down and stared at his trembling fingers. His whole body shook, shuddering, and he wanted to collapse on the very ground where he stood. Taking a deep breath, he placed a hand over his heart. Beating too fast. Why was it doing that?

The day had been utterly, blissfully normal. Sure, it was disconcerting, in some ways, to have gone through that intense and harrowing experience all those weeks ago, then, in a snap…all back to normal. But it was all over. Nothing remained to plague him, nothing to chase him and wreck him. Hell and Heaven weren’t coming for them, Aziraphale _loved_ him. He had everything he never thought he could have.

He still didn’t understand how. _How_ was it normal?

Thinking back, this version of “normal” was so similar to what happened before that the differences seemed negligible in the grander state of their lives – his and Aziraphale’s, that is. The only thing to adjust to was this nebulous concept of “safety.”

But they were safe at last, he reminded himself as he ran his hands through his hair, out of his face. He released an explosive sigh. _It’s just been a long day_. He was just tired. Yeah, just tired.

Crowley sauntered to his room and snapped himself into black silk pajamas. He went for a nightgown, loose around the shoulders and hips, nonrestrictive. He raised a hand to remove his sunglasses before realizing they weren’t there – he’d forgotten them back in the bookshop. No big deal, he’d go by and get them the next day and treat Aziraphale to some pastries or something.

Flopping down on his bed face-first, feet at the headboard, Crowley stared at the black comforter his cheek was mashed against. Whispers of light filtered through his half-drawn curtains, from streetlamps and the occasion headlight of a passing car, electrifying the room in static bursts before receding to duskiness. It was cold. And his shoulders trembled, and he hadn’t breathed in multiple hours. The world was back to normal, and he was not.

He started to cry.

Crowley shoved his face fully into the fluffy comforter, and he cried, and he shook, and he sobbed, and he didn’t understand _why._

He was fine, okay? Really. He’d _been_ fine. It’d been _weeks_ ; he had no reason to be having an issue now. He was safe and Aziraphale was safe and it was all over and his face was wet and cold and he choked for breaths because apparently, he started breathing again at some point. Fuck that, really, but he kept doing it because he didn’t know what the heaven else to do. He didn’t know what was happening.

He was okay. He _was_ okay. _Why aren’t I okay?_

He shuddered himself apart, making the smallest of whimpers and sobs into his comforter, fists clenched around a strained black weave. He cried, and the quiet hungrily consumed, suffocating him in the lonely den he caged himself in, the cage he savored like an eternal emptiness. There was no ache to the tears; it was like experiencing existence through a thick glass wall, like sinking into a pit of foam so sensation became something that happened to someone else.

He didn’t stop crying until the tears decided they were done.

When he drew back after a few hesitant moments of resettling into his space, sniffing loudly, he stared at the wet spot where his tears and snot formed a patch darker than the black, and he sat up to stare at the wall and think about books.

It was pretty obvious, really, once he had a clear mind for it. His fingers tightening around the bunched-up fabric.

Crowley was not new to triggers. He was a motherfucking demon older than the motherfucking planet and he knew motherfucking triggers.

Triggers were things that…set him off, that reminded him of a painful and traumatic memory – often memories he didn’t even know were traumatic until afterward. Some lasted centuries, others for years or just months. Sometimes, they were straightforward. He couldn’t stand to be near flooding or keep up with news on hurricanes that ravaged entire towns. He’d probably never like the sensation of falling, for obvious reasons, even on a dumb fair ride.

Sometimes, they were small things that shouldn’t hurt, but did.

_(It’s not a shooting star, it’s a meteoroid, but it looks like a star.)_

After Armageddon didn’t quite happen, Crowley had a minor breakdown, which Aziraphale helped him through. Okay, “minor breakdown”…it was a _panic attack_ is what it was. Also something Crowley wasn’t new to, though he’d never had anyone around to deal with one before.

But after that, he felt fine. Absolutely no problems. He was surprised at himself, really. He figured he’d be a mess, afterward, but he thought back on That Week and didn’t feel much pain. He survived it and it was over, so he moved on. No big deal. He enjoyed the world. He had an important talk with Aziraphale, and now they held hands sometimes, and that was great.

He was fine long enough to think that maybe he actually was.

Didn’t he ever learn?

Back in his room, Crowley took mindful, deep breaths. 4-7-8. He stretched a bit, took circuits in circles around his greyed space, counted five things he could see and four he could feel and three he could hear and so on. 5-4-3-2-1. Coping mechanisms that he taught himself but usually forgot to employ. He centered himself until his breathing evened, and he dried off his face.

There. He broke down, and now it was out of his system. It wasn’t the first time he had had to calm himself after an…episode.

A new thought crossed his mind this time, though, and that was how Aziraphale had been emphasizing for weeks that Crowley could come to him should he ever need help again. _“Don’t hesitate to call me, old boy,”_ he said fondly, like some old cartoon stereotype, and Crowley knew he really did mean it. Aziraphale was a guardian, a protector. Of humans, usually, but he seemed to have decided from the start that Crowley needed protecting, too.

Crowley didn’t know how he felt about that (he did, he did, but he couldn’t say it, not even to himself).

So…maybe he could call Aziraphale. He was fine now, obviously, but to talk to someone who he knew cared, to revive the normalcy, to settle his pounding pulse…would be good.

Aziraphale was kind and loved him, he would do that (he shouldn’t have to).

More tears leaked out and Crowley growled in frustration, scrubbing at his face. It was stupid. This was _stupid._ He wasn’t even sad, or angry, or feeling anything in particular. He felt perfectly fine, maybe a little overwhelmed, but his body wouldn’t stop leaking from his _fucking shitty damn eyeballs_. What a useless body, what the fuck.

He couldn’t call Aziraphale about this. Absolutely not. Aziraphale already helped him once before, Crowley didn’t need to put more on him. Aziraphale had his own problems, too, who was Crowley to go making things worse? He should be able to do this on his own, he’s _always_ done this _on his own-_

Fuck this. Fuck it all the Hell and to the moon.

He – he just needed to talk to Aziraphale. Yeah, just hear his voice. Not burdening him with his stupid garbage, _worthless_ emotions, just talking. Then Crowley would be fine.

He pulled out his phone. “Call Aziraphale,” he mumbled, and he waited for the customary two or three rings.

_“Hello? Crowley, is that you?”_

Crowley cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said, sounding only a little scratchy.

 _“Are you alright? It’s...”_ Aziraphale’s chair squeaked as the angel assumedly leaned to see that awful grandfather clock. _“Well past two, dear,”_ he finished.

“’M fine. Just realized I left my sunglasses at your place.”

 _“Oh?”_ A pause. _“Ah, yes, it seems you did. I’ve got them here. You can get them tomorrow when you come over, I imagine.”_

Crowley coughed. Tears still coursed down his cheeks. He wanted to go over and get the sunglasses right then, but more than that, he didn’t want Aziraphale to see him being such a mess. Didn’t matter if he’d seen it before, he had a good day and Crowley didn’t need to go _ruining_ it. He swallowed. “Yeah, yeah. That’s fine. Or I can just miracle myself a new pair. I’ve got more in the Bentley.”

The spares were in his glove compartment (shaking, soot-covering hand).

There must’ve been something in his tone, because Aziraphale’s breath caught. Shit. _“Crowley, are you sure you’re alright?”_ he said in a voice like puppies and rainbows.

“I’m perfectly swell.”

_“You don’t say swell.”_

“Well, maybe I do now.”

_“Crowley, please.”_

“I promise, I’m fine.”

Aziraphale paused meaningfully, projecting a thousand worries with silence. _“You don’t have to tell me. Not now, or at all. But I do care about you, so very much, and I will help if you want help.”_

Crowley mindfully took another deep breath, covering his mouth with his free hand as his throat tightened, burning with runoff mucus and grossness, and new, hot tears coursed down his face. He didn’t know his eyes could produce this much liquid, frankly (He didn’t know why he ached so much to hear kind words. He didn’t know why he hated hearing them. He hated them so much and hoped Aziraphale would never stop saying them).

He tried to reply but couldn’t. He let out a single sob.

 _“Love,”_ Aziraphale said anxiously, and Crowley let out another.

“Please,” he whispered, hoarse and cracked and _tired._ “Please come.”

No reply came, but Crowley’s phone began wobbling as cream and brown and blue and blonde molecules crystallized from the speaker, and a full-blown motherfucking angel tumbled onto the floor next to the demon with a loud _thud,_ looking disoriented.

“Oh, that was more uncomfortable than I assumed it might be,” Aziraphale murmured, righting himself and blinking in the low light.

“Don’t think it’s supposed to be possible on a wireless phone, actually,” Crowley croaked with a pathetic chuckle. It was just like Aziraphale to assume he was on a phone with wires and to try riding between the phone lines when he was a technophobe who’d never done anything of the sort, and of course it worked anyway because Aziraphale expected it to. Crowley loved him.

Aziraphale’s eyes found him as they adjusted to the dark. His expression _broke_ when he took in whatever horrible contortion the demon’s face must’ve been in. “Oh, darling…”

Crowley shook his head.

Aziraphale understood, of course he did. He got it, he cared, Aziraphale _loved_ him so damn much. Not because he was an angel, because he was Aziraphale. How could Crowley forget, every time, that Aziraphale loved him so much? Why was that certainty so easy to lose?

Aziraphale breached the space between them, sat on the bed beside Crowley, and pulled him wordlessly into his embrace. Warm, complete, firm. Crowley didn’t return it, he just let it happen, let it consume him like the quiet, but willing, utterly helpless to it. He wanted it to eat him up and never let him leave – not that he would ever try, anyway.

Aziraphale’s hands took on a constant rhythm as the sound of their breathing and their beating hearts conquered the silence, tiny echoes in a chamber of circuitous feeling. Up and down the demon’s back, up and down, warm and gentle. Up and down. He didn’t speak, he just waited.

“’S…stupid,” Crowley eventually mumbled against the angel’s shoulder, staring past him into the darkness as though he might find something in it worth seeing, worth looking for.

Aziraphale chose his words carefully. He always did. “What is stupid?” he settled on, voice soft and gentle as a breeze.

“All…this. The crying, and the _feeling.”_

“It is stupid to feel?”

Crowley hesitated, barely speaking through the thick throb of his sore throat. “It’s stupid to hurt when there’s _nothing_ hurting you.” His following laugh sounded broken, horrible, it hurt.

Against his temple, he felt the slight shake of Aziraphale’s head. “You _were_ hurt, my dear. There is nothing wrong with _still_ being hurt, of course not. You went through so much.” He squeezed him tighter. “We both did.”

“But it’s just…it’s over,” Crowley insisted, pulling away to face him. “It was difficult, it was bloody awful, but we got past it and I’ve been fine, so why… _why am I…?”_ He coughed, vocal cords taut as strings, wires stretched to their breaking point, throat hot and swollen. He couldn’t speak anymore.

Aziraphale swallowed and blinked rapidly. “You – we were both on, as the humans like to say, _survival mode_. And now, you’re finally feeling safe again, so your body is letting itself feel everything it couldn’t, then.” He pauses to kiss Crowley’s damp cheek where more tears gushed, stinging, a kiss that must’ve tasted of salt. “Whatever we are, these bodies are so very human sometimes.”

“Don’t…l-like it,” Crowley managed between heaving breaths.

“I know, love. I know. It won’t be forever.”

Crowley submitted himself to Aziraphale’s soft but firm body again, unable to hold himself up. He didn’t want to anymore. He was just so tired, his eyes hurt, dried out even as he continued to cry silently into Aziraphale’s poor waistcoat. He hid and curled up around the warmth, the gloomy lighting. He wanted to hide from the whole world, just him and this darkness, and this body beside his.

He did what he always knew helped the most. He breathed in slowly. He pretended, for a moment, that he was human, and he breathed.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Aziraphale whispered some time later into Crowley’s hair, voice cracking as he pulled Crowley against his body, encouraging him to hide, to feel safe (he was safe). “I’m proud of you for asking me to come here, for asking for help when you needed it. I’m so glad you did that.”

His words cut Crowley open, they flayed him, a flagellation of kindness. He still didn’t know why (he needed to hear them).

Crowley shifted and finally wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s stomach, returning the embrace.

“I love you,” Aziraphale murmured, as though trying to kill Crowley with a compassion his demonic body flailed to reject.

They remained like that, and that was okay. It was okay to cry in the dark because he needed to (it was okay to trust someone to hold him together). Aziraphale whispered soft things, kindnesses and soothing words, and Crowley forced himself to simply take it.

After some time, maybe hours and maybe minutes, Crowley drew back and grabbed some tissues from the firmament to mop up the mess on his face (again). Some part of him was a little embarrassed, but he also felt so safe that it didn’t overwhelm him this time; the shame vied for his attention and was ignored. Aziraphale kept holding him, a tether, and after Crowley finished, the angel pulled, from his inside pocket, Crowley’s sunglasses. He held them out to the demon, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“You wanted these?” he said gently. “It seemed important.”

Crowley smiled. It looked a little broken, but he smiled. He accepted them and slid the shades over his eyes. It wasn’t hiding, not anymore. He just needed them, because he was safe behind the sunglasses from anything that might try to see him (he needed to wear them when he was alone, sometimes, and that was fine. It was okay to have silly things that made him feel safe).

Crowley was on his bed, in Aziraphale’s arms, in his sunglasses.

He still trembled, just a bit, but this was better.

He didn’t know when he’d be okay. Later, he’d talk more with Aziraphale, and they’d figure out what series of events led him to this point, what he did or saw or heard that hurt so much. He’d figure it out, he’d be loved through it all, he’d come to understand what was right for him to cope, to grieve, to _live._

He wasn’t okay right then, but he knew he would be. Other days, other times. It wouldn’t always like this. The hurt would fade. Some things might always ache, but he would get better, even if he felt irreparable. It just took patience, and love, and sometimes someone else to remind him he deserved it (he didn’t believe it, but Aziraphale believed it for him, and that was a start).

“Love you, too,” Crowley whispered as he leaned once more into the embrace and gave himself entirely to sensation, to feeling. Aziraphale’s fingertips resting against his back, the even breathing and steady grip of muscles and fat that made him beautiful and just right, the way Aziraphale always knew what Crowley needed to hear when he didn’t want to hear it. Aziraphale was there, beside him, and he kissed Crowley’s temple, feather-light but sure.

It was odd, Crowley mused, how the little things stood out the most.

**Author's Note:**

> Your triggers and your emotional responses are valid, my friends, no matter how nonsensical or confusing they may seem. It’s so hard sometimes, and the aftermath can be brutal. We don’t know what experiences will hurt us until they are passed. It’s okay if you’re not okay right now. We will be. Let silly things make you feel safe. Give yourself permission to cry in the dark sometimes.


End file.
